Though it is almost impossible to believe, my dog must die.
She was diagnosed with a big heart tumor March 7. If you do a search in the blog for Dying Dog Show, it covers the dog tracks.
I am at the point where I am keeping the dog alive more for me than for the dog. I was talking to my mother about it on the phone today while driving and she said, “I put both you and your sister on the health directive because I figured your sister would hang onto us ‘till the very end but you’d be more ready to pull the plug.”
She said it with full confidence as if to say, “Come on, son, we all know you’re a cold blooded killer. That’s why we picked you. We’re going to need you to not go soft when the time comes.”
My mother thinks I would have no problem killing her, so this dog, in her mind, should be a breeze.
But it isn’t. You know how many things I’ve written while she was just one chair away? Sometimes, I’d put her in a folding chair right next to me, on a cushion. She always wanted to be right next to me. You could sleep with her with her head right on your shoulder all night long. She was the most affectionate mammal west of Philly.
Now, though, she doesn’t want to be near anyone. She is bloated and wretched. And when she moves she chokes and coughs on her tumor.
Look, it’s over. It’s over. It’s over.
And all we do is cry.
Execution is slated for Tuesday. So if anyone wants to see her one last time, just let me know.